“When did you come?” inquired Rodman.
“Called at this port for coal,” responded the other. “I’ve been down to Rio with flour, and I have to call at La Guayra. I sail in two hours.”
“Where do you go from Venezuela?”
“I sailed out of Havre, and I’m going back with fruit. The Doc’s had about enough. I’m goin’ to take him with me.”
For a moment, Rodman stood speculating, then he bent eagerly forward.
“Paul,” he whispered, “you know me. I’ve done you a turn or two in the past.”
The sailor nodded.
“Now, I want you to do me a turn. I want you to take this man with you. He must get out of here, and he can’t care for himself. He’ll be all right—either all right or dead—before you land on the other side. The Doc here will look after him. He’s got money. Whatever you do for him, he’ll pay handsomely. He’s a rich man.” The filibuster was talking rapidly and earnestly.
“Where do I take him?” asked the captain, with evident reluctance.
“Wherever you’re going; anywhere away from here. He’ll make it all right with you.”